"Cultivators of the earth are the most valuable citizens. They are the most vigorous, the most independent, the most virtuous, and they are tied to their country and wedded to its liberty and interests by the most lasting bonds."
I was at the gym this morning, briskly walking a treadmill while listening to a favorite daily podcast about markets and investing. About ten or fifteen minutes into my workout, a man using an elliptical machine directly in front of me literally dropped dead. I didn’t see him collapse, but the guys on treadmills on either side of me immediately started pointing (which drew my attention). The victim looked to be in his 50s, and seemed really fit (like a distance runner or something). He’d fallen into an awkward position and wasn’t moving at all.
I thought maybe he’d just fainted or something, but then some other gym members pulled him out flat onto the floor and began performing CPR. This was really serious.
I jumped from the treadmill and ran to the front desk to alert staff. A gym member announced she was calling 911. A gym staffer came running with a defibrillator and began hooking it up to the victim. Other members were pulling machines out of the way to give more room to work. I tried getting back on the treadmill, as I figured there was nothing else I could do, but almost immediately thought better of it. I shut the treadmill down and joined some gym members who were kneeling in prayer in the aisles.
Paramedics eventually arrived, and soon were a blur of equipment and instruments. They got the automatic chest compression machine going, and it was still going as they wheeled the man out out. I never saw him make the slightest movement. His eyes remained wide open and glassy. Really scary. I can’t imagine he survived.
I never did get on the treadmill again, or even finish the podcast. I was so shaken, I packed up and drove home in silence. Everything about markets and investing now seemed completely unimportant.
None of us can foresee just how suddenly or unexpectedly our exit from this life may come upon us. Accordingly, a perpetual watchword of the Knights of Columbus is Tempus Fugit, Memento Mori — or, Time Flies, Remember Death.
I’m sure I’ll remember the events of this morning for a very long time.
And please, in your charity, say a prayer for this man’s family and for the happy repose of his soul.
Pretty much every farm has at least one barn cat. We’ve had several over the years, and I’m honestly not quite sure how many we have right now. They’re a motley bunch of mixed breeds, and most came from some other farm’s litter of barn cats.
That changed late last spring. We began noticing a long-haired, light-colored cat on the property. It was a loner, and didn’t attempt to socialize with our barn cats. It acted extremely skittish, taking flight to the garage and hiding whenever one of us even began to approach. It would take cover behind tools or supplies, or would climb out of reach to the rafters. I was amazed at the nooks and crannies it could vanish into.
The kids and I began comparing notes from the glimpses we’d gotten of the cat, which we dubbed “Garage Kitty” or “G.K.”. It didn’t seem at all like a typical barn cat, and didn’t even seem like the kind of cat you’d find anywhere on a typical farm. For starters, G.K. was very beautiful and most likely purebred. From the flattened facial features, we guessed it to be a Persian or Himalayan – and we supposed it had cost a lot of money. It was the sort of cat you’d expect to find in a New York City apartment — not on a farm in rural Michigan. Yet we couldn’t see a collar, tags, or any other evidence of ownership.
We speculated that perhaps the cat had belonged to an elderly lady, and none of her kids had wanted it when she passed away, so they’d dumped it in the country hoping it would find a home (sadly, a lot of animals get abandoned in the country like this). But why would this obvious indoor pet want nothing to do with humans?
One particular small human took it upon himself to change things. One of the then-eleven-year-old’s chores was (and still is) to give some food to the barn cats each evening, and to stand guard so the chickens don’t steal it. (Barn cats do catch a lot of mice, but not enough to survive on; they need some supplemental food, which we provide in the form of the cheapest stuff from Tractor Supply.) He began leaving a dish of cat food at the entrance to the garage as well, and then walking away. Once he reached a distance G.K. judged safe, the fur-ball would come creeping out to get a meal. We would watch from the porch, but if anyone made a noise (or tried to approach the garage), G.K. would skedaddle back into the shadows.
As time passed, the 11 y.o. was able to remain closer and closer to the garage as G.K. came out to eat. Eventually, he was able to stand right next to it as the cat ate. One evening last fall, he burst excitedly into my office and announced, “I petted Garage Kitty!” He explained that while G.K. was eating, he got down next to it and the cat actually allowed him to touch it while it ate. It wasn’t long before he could pick the cat up and hold it after it finished eating. He was fast becoming G.K.’s favorite human, and was growing quite fond of this feral cat he’d managed to tame.
But I had to remind him: Garage Kitty was very likely somebody’s pet which had somehow gotten lost. It would shock me if an exotic cat like this didn’t have a microchip with the owner’s information. Now that we could catch and hold G.K., we really should take the cat to the vet and have it scanned.
But when? I figured we had one bite at the apple. If we were to confine the cat in a carrier and then couldn’t get to the vet anytime soon, G.K. wouldn’t trust us to pick him up again. Getting in to our local vet had become very hit or miss. Everything had gone to appointment-only, and they often wouldn’t answer the phone or return calls. Many times, I would drive by and wouldn’t see any staff through the window. When we got a new puppy last year, they even told us flat out they were too backed up to schedule an appointment. We had to take Puppy to a vet in a different town – and their hours weren’t always predictable, either.
The weather soon turned very cold, and we started worrying about the cat. We considered bringing it into the house, but for various reasons Mrs. Yeoman Farmer doesn’t like house pets. The animals live in my office building – which, with two dogs and a cat already in it was getting a bit full. And we didn’t know how the current cat would react to having a rival. Still, given how cold it was getting outside, we figured we didn’t have much of a choice. Shortly before Christmas, Garage Kitty became Office Kitty (but was still referred to by all of us as G.K.).
The other office-dwellers were surprisingly nonplussed by the new addition — though Cat Number One did grow increasingly perturbed as time passed and it became clear G.K. wasn’t leaving. G.K. kept to himself, much as he had in the garage itself, spending a lot of time deep under my desk. When I wasn’t around, his favorite hangout was my office chair – but he would vanish under the desk as soon as I approached. I seldom got to hold him.
The picture above (taken shortly after we brought him inside) doesn’t do justice to how incredibly beautiful this cat is. You can’t see his eyes, but when he opens them wide they’re a stunning shade of china blue. Sometime after this picture was taken, the kids began brushing him – and he loved it. It was the first time we heard him purr. I wish I’d gotten a picture of him with his hair all brushed out.
But watching how much he loved being brushed only deepened my sense that this was somebody’s beloved pet. Somebody had probably brushed him a lot. I told the kids we really had to get the cat to a vet for a scan – which we would do when Puppy had her next appointment, in late February. The Kid in particular begged me to reconsider; couldn’t we just keep G.K.? I pointed out to him how awful we would feel if one of our pets had gotten lost, and how happy we would be if somebody found that pet and returned him to us. Wouldn’t you want someone else to return our dog or cat to us if they could?
I also reminded him of an old Brady Bunch episode (yes, we watch a lot of classic TV) in which the kids find a wallet stuffed with a huge amount of cash. Mike insists they must turn it over to the police and wait to see if someone claims it. They’re on pins and needles, hoping nobody claims it, and dreaming about what they could buy with all that money. But someone does claim it. After picking it up at the police station, he stops by the Brady house to thank the kids. He’s a kindly old man who’d been scrimping and saving for many years to take his wife on a vacation, had lost the wallet while traveling, and was grateful beyond words to have it back. The kids realize that turning in the wallet really was the right thing to do.
My own son reluctantly agreed that yeah, we needed to see if we could find G.K.’s owner. But he still hoped we wouldn’t be able to. And in that we were of one mind. G.K. was pretty quirky and not very affectionate, and I’m not a cat person, but he was growing on me.
Puppy had her vet appointment last Friday. We couldn’t find our cat carrier, so we loaded G.K. into a cardboard box. He would have escaped from it easily, so I had The Kid come along to keep the box closed. Also, I figured that if the cat somehow got loose outside the vet’s office, The Kid had a better chance than anyone else of catching him. I think The Kid also appreciated being able to spend some additional time with “his” cat.
At the vet’s office, I didn’t dare open the box until we were safely inside a closed room. I’d never seen one of these scanners before – it was like one of those security wands that are used as metal detectors. The vet tech got an immediate hit on a microchip, between G.K.’s shoulder blades. The screen lit up with a long identification number, which they gave us along with a phone number to the service the chip was registered with.
Back home and looking at this piece of paper, I sat at my desk with a heavy heart. But I knew I had to make the call. The woman who answered entered the ID number into a computer, and came back with the cat’s name: Yoshi. (Just as exotic as I figured.) Interestingly, however, she said the cat had NOT been reported to them as missing. She took my contact information, and said they would attempt to reach out to Yoshi’s owner. I should expect to hear from the owner directly, or from the service.
Once I got off the phone, I decided to try something. G.K.’s back was turned and he was walking away from my desk. I called out, “Yoshi!” He immediately stopped, turned, and looked right at me.
Hours passed, and we started to get our hopes up about the “elderly lady’s cat dumped in the country” theory. The Kid and I drove to our parish, to work at the first Fish Fry of the season, cautiously optimistic.
Back in the car and getting ready to drive home, I found a text message asking me to call right away about the cat. I did, and the young man who answered sounded like he was over the moon with gratitude. He explained that Yoshi was his girlfriend’s cat. He lived out in the country himself, not far from us, but the girlfriend lived about an hour away. She had brought Yoshi with her once when she came to visit last spring, and the cat had somehow gotten out of the house. She’d had Yoshi for seven or eight years, loved him to death, and had been distraught ever since losing him. He added that Yoshi was a high-end exotic cat that’d cost $3,000, and had never been let outside in his life.
“THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS?!” I repeated. “Are you KIDDING me?”
I explained to him that I was driving home, but he should plan on coming by our place at 8pm. I then told him the whole saga of Garage Kitty, and why it was just now that we’d managed to get the cat scanned for a microchip.
When I got off the phone, I filled The Kid in on the news – including how much Garage Kitty had cost. His tongue-tied reaction was priceless: “THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS? Is that even … an allowable … number for a cat to cost?”
I chuckled and explained that yes, many purebred cats and dogs can easily cost that much – or more. It’s a completely foreign concept to us, because all our pets are mixed-breeds from the Humane Society. As one of our other kids observed later: “Garage Kitty cost more than all the other pets we’ve ever had – combined.”
Once we got home, The Kid spent every minute before 8pm holding and petting Garage Kitty. He knew giving the cat back was the right thing, but admitted he still wished we could keep him. I told him I totally understood, and that I wished we could keep Garage Kitty, too.
The young man and his girlfriend arrived at 8pm sharp, and I was out in the driveway to meet them. She leapt from his pickup truck and hurried toward me, her voice quivering with emotion. The Kid brought the cat outside, handed him off, and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen someone so happy. She clutched Yoshi close, saying his name over and over and how much she’d missed him and how he should’ve have run away and …
I knew we’d done the right thing. The Kid did, too.
My only regret was not finding a way to have gotten the cat scanned sooner.
We are in the thick of goat kidding season, with a dozen or so having arrived recently. Fortunately, they waited until the worst of the arctic blast had unlocked us from its grip. Most of the kids hit the ground and got on their feet quickly, and are now romping around the barn like it’s a giant goat nursery.
A friend asks:
Wow, great to hear about the goat kids! So what kind of work do the humans have to do when a goat gives birth?
The quick answer is: Usually nothing. Roughly 90% of the time, a goat (or sheep, for that matter – pretty much all of this also applies to the ovine world) gives birth without incident. She usually surprises us by delivering when no one is around. We come out to the barn to do chores, and she is licking a kid dry – often while its twin is tottering around, figuring out how to get a first meal. When we do catch a goat in the middle of labor, we simply leave her alone and check back in a few hours to see if there are any problems. Usually, we find her with a kid or pair of kids.
The few times our intervention is needed, it’s almost always because of the kid’s presentation in the birth canal. A smooth delivery starts with both of the fetal kid’s front hooves tucked under its chin (and not pulled back toward its body). The hooves come out first, followed closely by the nose and then the rest of the head. From there, the remainder of the kid tends to slide out easily.
The most common problem is for a head to come out get and stuck because one or both front hooves failed to come out first. The two legs pointed forward, hooves leading the way, creates a streamlined wedge. By contrast, with one or both front legs drawn back, the shoulder is too large to come through the birth canal easily. In these cases, our job is to don a pair of latex gloves, find the missing hoof or hooves, and fish that hoof (or hooves) out under the kid’s chin. In some cases, I’ve had to push the head back inside the mother first; with the head filling the birth canal, I couldn’t get my hand inside to find the hooves.
At this point, the mother goat is often tired from a long stuck labor. Once I get the head/hoof package into the birth canal, I usually save her additional effort and simply pull the kid the rest of the way out.
A week ago, we had a less common (and more challenging) issue. We’d gone to bed Saturday night with an older goat in labor, and Sunday morning there was still no sign of anything except the initial bloody discharge. While Homeschooled Farm Girl held the goat steady in a standing position, I put on some gloves and tried to get a feel for the situation. A hoof. Good. I pulled it out, and went fishing for the other one; fortunately, it wasn’t far away. Somehow, I got a good enough grip to pull it out with the first one. Now I ran into a problem: I couldn’t find a head, and the mother goat was getting exasperated with my search.
I strongly suspected we had a breach presentation, and that these were hind hooves I’d found. There was no way I’d be able to turn the kid around inside the uterus – especially because there was probably a twin in there as well. Besides, the mother goat was exhausted. We needed the kid(s) out quickly, before we lost one of our best milkers.
With the goat voicing her strenuous objections, I worked the two legs farther and farther out of her – and then gave a long, steady tug. At last the rest of the kid emerged, and I pulled it free. Not surprisingly, it appeared to have expired sometime the night before; sad, but I was relieved that we’d been able to remove it and save Mom. I now turned my attention back to her, to see if there might be a twin. Indeed, I spotted two more hooves that’d been pulled out with the first kid. These were much smaller. I pulled on them, and the remains of a tiny fetal kid slid right out. It appeared to have reached no more than two or three months gestation (five months is full term).
The mother goat spent the rest of the day inside, resting up. She wasn’t terribly interested in eating, and wasn’t giving much milk, which got us worried. I drenched her with apple cider vinegar, and gave her a shot of B-complex. Mrs. Yeoman Farmer came up with a mix of homeopathic remedies as well.
After a few days, to our great relief, Mother Goat was doing much better. The Yeoman Farm Children have been milking her a couple of times a day, getting about a quart altogether. After several weeks of having to rely on powdered goat milk for the family’s yogurt supply, this fresh milk has been a wonderful blessing. Once we start selling off goat kids (which are currently taking for themselves all the milk the other does are producing), we will hopefully have enough not only for yogurt but cheese as well.
Next up: the sheep. Lambs should start dropping in a few weeks. Here’s hoping for lots of smooth and uneventful deliveries!
I recently hit the road for the latest installment of the “Presidents at Rest” tour (the beginnings of which I detailed in a recent post). I needed to go to Washington, DC for business, and decided to make it a road trip this time. After being cooped up for the better part of the year, I was craving the opportunity to get out and see the country at my own pace. I’m a “planner,” so enjoyed figuring out how to make a big loop maximizing the number of presidential burial sites (and more). By the time I’d finished, it seemed almost like a “patriotic pilgrimage.”
Jump in, fasten your seat belt, and enjoy the Great Presidential Circle Tour!
James GarfieldWilliam McKinley
In my initial plans, I thought I could hit James Garfield (in Cleveland), swing down to McKinley (in Canton), and then over to James Buchanan (in Pennsylvania). Then I realized I had a problem: sunset in Lancaster would be at 4:40PM. I could reach that cemetery in time, but it would require giving only cursory attention to the two presidents in Ohio. I didn’t want to rush either one, so I ended up bypassing Garfield in favor of McKinley for a couple of reasons: (1) the McKinley memorial has a museum attached to it (Garfield’s does not), and (2) the Garfield memorial is among the grandest in the country, and has recently undergone a magnificent facelift / restoration, but the interior will not re-open until next March. I figured it made most sense to save Garfield for a springtime Saturday day trip, when I could take the family and really enjoy the memorial in its fullness. And, in the meantime, take some time with the McKinley museum so I could learn more about him.
I hit the road before dawn, and reached Canton shortly after the McKinley museum opened. First, however, I wanted to pay my respects to the President himself. To say that the tomb was easy to find would be an understatement. I knew it was pretty big, but was unprepared for what I found when I arrived.
Unfortunately, the tomb itself is sealed up for the winter. The exterior was still accessible, however, so I climbed the steps (dodging the locals who were using them as a workout site) to get a better look. I circled all the way around it, admiring the view of the surrounding area, and then made my way to the museum. I turned out to be their first customer of the day, and had the entire place pretty much to myself!
The one surprise about the museum was how relatively little was dedicated to William McKinley himself. The great bulk of the exhibit space was about Stark County, Ohio. I ended up learning a lot not only about McKinley, but also about what life was like for the pioneers who settled the area (including some of my own ancestors, who migrated from Pennsylvania to the neighboring county in the 1830s). There was even an entire walk-through, interactive small town Main Street. The more time I spent exploring it, the more I wished the kids could’ve shared the experience. When I told Mrs. Yeoman Farmer about it, she agreed it would be a fun family road trip for sometime next year (and we could also visit the Pro Football Hall of Fame, which I didn’t have time to even drive past this time).
James Buchanan
Yes, he falls at or near [thank you, Andrew Johnson!] the bottom of virtually every historian’s ranking of U.S. Presidents. Yes, he fiddled while the Union burned down and civil war erupted. But James Buchanan did hold the office, and I still wanted to pay my respects. So I put Canton in my rear view mirror, set out across the rolling rural landscape of eastern Ohio, and enjoyed the many miles of quiet back roads that led to the Turnpike. Then it was easy sailing all the way to Lancaster, Pennsylvania.
I wound my way through town, and made the final approach to Woodward Hill Cemetery with about a half-hour to spare before sunset. Driving down Chesapeake Street, I suddenly came upon an inconspicuous side gate with a tiny sign reading “Enter Here / Tomb of U.S. President / James Buchanan.” Had I blinked, I would’ve gone right past it. I’m just glad I didn’t cause an accident after slamming on the brakes.
Once inside the historic cemetery, the tomb itself was not easy to find. Directional signage was … sparse. I took more than a couple of wrong turns. (On the plus side, getting lost allowed me to see quite a few more really cool old burial plots than I’d been expecting to see!) I did have a general idea as to the location of Buchanan’s tomb within the cemetery, however, so managed to work my way in that direction. A pole flying the American Flag confirmed I was getting close. And then, there it was — in all the minimalist glory befitting the Buchanan presidency. This is the view from the curb:
A Quick Detour to Chester County, Pennsylvania
In recent weeks, I uncovered one of the “holy grails” of genealogical research: an ancestor who served in the Revolutionary War. My 5x great-grandfather, Hezekiah Davies, enlisted at the very beginning of the conflict and saw action as a lieutenant in Colonel Montgomery’s Chester County Battalion of the “Flying Camp.” He participated in the battle of Long Island, joined the retreat to Manhattan, and was taken prisoner when Fort Washington fell to the British on November 16, 1776. Once paroled, he married a young woman on Long Island, and eventually settled back in his native Chester County, PA. He and his wife, and the son through whom I descend, are buried at Great Valley Presbyterian cemetery in Malvern. Given how close this trip was taking me to the area, I simply had to add it to my itinerary.
I arrived at the cemetery early Thursday morning. Fortunately, I knew the Hezekiah Davies plot was “north of the church,” and it was clearly marked. I was able to find it without too much trouble.
His son’s burial plot, by contrast, was much harder to find because the headstone was so faded. It took a fair amount of searching, but I did eventually locate it in the same general section of the cemetery (about 50 yards away).
I spent the rest of the morning at the Chester County Historical Society library, learning more about this branch of my family tree. In preparing my application for the Sons of the American Revolution, I already had solid documentary evidence for all the lineage links from Hezekiah’s son (Nathanial) down to me. But I was aware of only one document listing Hezekiah’s children (and dates of their births): an old application to the Daughters of the American Revolution. It most likely came from someone’s family Bible, because I could find zero outside corroboration of it. SAR would accept that DAR application’s list as proof of lineage, but I was hoping to back it up with something more.
With the help of the CCHS librarian, I hit pay dirt: a probate document, buried deep in the Chester County archives, filed at the time of Hezekiah’s death. It listed the names of his surviving children — and all of those names matched the DAR list! As further proof, I found a newspaper legal notice Nathanial had posted regarding his father’s estate. I also uncovered some newspaper clippings, and magazine stories, that didn’t add to the documentary evidence but were nonetheless interesting to read.
With a huge smile, I turned the car south. And realized I had just enough time that afternoon for a quality visit to the home and burial place of Hezekiah Davies’ commander-in-chief.
George Washington
I’d visited Mount Vernon a couple of times in the past, and even took a tour of the mansion a few years ago, but couldn’t remember having visited George Washington’s final resting place. Once I’d bought my ticket and cleared the visitor center, the family tomb was my first destination.
After waiting for the crowd to dissipate, and paying my respects, I asked the attending docent what that blue flag on the right signified. She explained that it was George Washington’s personal flag. A personal flag! How cool is that?
Sunny skies and comfortable temperatures made it a perfect afternoon to stroll the grounds of Mount Vernon unhurriedly. By the time the gates closed for the day, I’d managed to see virtually every exhibit outside the mansion. I then enjoyed a quiet drive up the George Washington Parkway to the District, where I spent the evening at a long-time client’s Christmas party / dinner (the original purpose of the trip). After this long year of isolation, it was wonderful to reconnect with colleagues face-to-face.
James Monroe and John Tyler
The next morning, I crossed the Rappahannock River and cruised all the way to Richmond on I-95. I think I had “The Night they Drove Old Dixie Down” in my head pretty much all day. And for good reason: navigating the streets of the Confederate capital, the whole feel of the place gave this lifelong northerner the sense of being in a very different cultural milieu. That sense was “turned up to eleven” once I actually drove through the gates of Hollywood Cemetery. I couldn’t help slowing the car to a crawl, rolling down the windows, and gaping at all the historic tombs (many of them carved into hillsides). And then I spotted a Confederate States of America insignia on a gravestone. Then another. And another. Until I lost count.
I knew James Monroe and John Tyler were both interred on “Presidents Circle.” On the map I’d consulted before the trip, that section had looked like it would easy to find. But now that I was actually here, winding among trees and hillsides, I quickly realized I was lost – and my phone’s GPS was of no help. I flagged down a groundskeeper, and asked if he could point me toward Presidents Circle. I felt incredibly self-conscious, like I had a giant neon sign on my head flashing the word YANKEE. The groundskeeper soon put me at ease, though, with his super-friendly demeanor. His directions got me started in the right direction, but all the curves and hillsides again threw me off. Somehow I eventually spotted this pedestrian path leading to my goal, so I ditched the car and continued on foot.
And it was indeed a perfect morning to stroll through an historic cemetery: sunny, quiet, and with a comfortable temperature. Soon enough, I reached Presidents Circle itself.
James Monroe’s tomb sits right in the heart of the Circle — and is easily the most beautiful of all the burial sites I’ve visited. I’d read something about it before the trip, but the words (and even the pictures) didn’t really do the monument justice. The granite sarcophagus with Monroe’s remains is set inside an elaborate cast iron structure called “The Birdcage,” which apparently got a significant makeover in 2016.
And speaking of Jefferson Davis … it turns out he’s interred at Hollywood Cemetery as well. Given that I was already there, I was curious to see how the Confederate States of America laid its own president to rest. It turned out to be a five minute or so drive away; thanks to another very friendly groundskeeper pointing me in the right direction, I was able to find it fairly easily. The site had a spectacular view of the James River, which I admired before taking a look at the monument itself. I’m not going to include a picture of it in this post, but it was actually fairly simple: a life-size statue of Davis, standing atop a pedestal, with the graves of Jefferson and Varina Davis in front of it.
James Madison
Most of the drive from Richmond to James Madison’s Montpelier was incredibly scenic, especially once I left I-64 and started up US-15. Think “country gentry” rolling terrain and horse farms with white rail fences. But here’s some advice if you go: map the route beforehand, sticking to main highways, and ignore Google Maps navigation if it tells you to turn onto Route 639 (AKA “Chicken Mountain Road”). The pavement ended after about a mile, and it was soon so narrow that I had no way to turn the car around. I was quickly deep in the woods, descending a steep dirt one-lane path, praying that I not plunge into a ravine. For whatever reason, Google was taking me around to the BACK, staff-only, gate. Once there, it proudly announced that I had arrived.
Yeah, thanks for that. Now, how do I get in?
Eventually I was able to work my way around to the main entrance, using guesswork and intuition to figure out which country roads to follow.
I paid my entry fee, and learned that the next showing of a series of short films about Madison would be at noon. That allowed plenty of time to explore the property. My first stop was of course the family cemetery, fenced in at the end of a long winding path. The large obelisk marks the President’s grave; the smaller one is for his wife, Dolly.
Montpelier covers thousands of acres, including miles of forest walking paths. I didn’t have time for that much exploring, but did enjoy the long walk up to the mansion from the cemetery. I took a look at the handful of outdoor exhibits surrounding it that were open (the slave cabins in particular), but all in all the experience was a bit disappointing. Because of Covid, nearly every indoor exhibit was closed. I did make it back for the showing of the informational films about Madison, and especially enjoyed the one about his genius in designing the U.S. Constitution. It managed to present a “weighty” subject in a way that was simple, understandable, and also very entertaining.
I then jumped in the car, bypassed Chicken Mountain Road, and hurried south to Charlottesville.
Thomas Jefferson
I had wanted to visit Jefferson’s Monticello for many years, and was glad I’d reserved the bulk of the afternoon to explore it. After grabbing a quick lunch at the cafe, a shuttle bus whisked me from the visitor center up to the mansion grounds. Tourist traffic happened to be light that day, so there was very little waiting in line for anything.
A docent met me just outside the mansion’s front porch, and gave a brief orientation about Jefferson and how the mansion came to be built. She then led me to the main entrance hall, filled with historical objects as it would’ve been in Jefferson’s time. A pair of docents gave a quick overview of these objects, and the general design of the foyer itself. I then peppered them with questions, which they seemed to enjoy getting the chance to answer. From there I strolled naturally from room to room, making a grand circle of the first floor, asking more questions of the docents stationed at various places. My only disappointment was that the second floor was not open on this particular day.
Once outside, I took my time simply walking around and soaking in all of the Monticello grounds and displays.
As you might expect, I made sure to visit the extensive garden plots that are still maintained in Jeffersonian fashion. (At the gift shop, you can even buy seeds harvested from the heirloom plants grown there on the grounds. Guess what Mrs. Yeoman Farmer is getting for Christmas this year!) Should I ever have the opportunity to return to Monticello with the family, I’d like to go during the summer and get a guided tour of these gardens.
Once I’d seen pretty much everything, I started down the long footpath leading back to the visitor center. Jefferson’s family cemetery is along that route, so I of course stopped to pay my respects to the man who inspired this Yeoman Farmer.
The path continued through a pleasant set of woods, which I enjoyed having to myself as I hiked back to the visitor center. Once there, I ended up spending a lot more time (and money!) in the gift shop than initially planned. The selection of items (not just the usual books, t-shirts, and coffee cups — they even had preserves made from fruit grown on the property) was outstanding. The more I browsed, the more wonderful Christmas gift ideas presented themselves to me. The sun was sinking into the Blue Ridge Mountains by the time I turned the car toward home.
Warren G. Harding
I’m still not sure how I managed to stay awake all the way to Columbus, Ohio. From there, it was an easy jaunt to the little town of Marion the next morning — my final stop along the great Presidential Circle Tour. The Harding Memorial is right along the highway that goes through the heart of Marion, so it was impossible to miss. And it was even more amazing that I’d imagined.
If you look closely, you can see an iron fence preventing visitors from entering the interior of the memorial. That’s where President and Mrs. Harding are actually interred. I got this picture by holding the camera through the fence.
As an historical note: Harding Tomb was the last of the elaborate presidential memorials. Starting with Calvin Coolidge, final resting places became more restrained, and tended to be incorporated into the grounds of a presidential library (JFK’s grave at Arlington being the exception).
As I left Marion behind, and continued north toward home, I had some quiet time to reflect on the incredible variety of memorials I’d seen among the fourteen presidents visited so far. Some are relatively simple public cemetery plots (Tyler, Buchanan, Benjamin Harrison, Taft), some are stately tombs or private plots on the grounds of a presidential home or library (Washington, Jefferson, Madison, Hayes, Ford), some are spectacular (McKinley, Harding), and still others are truly one of a kind (Monroe, Wilson, JFK). Not to mention that they are in all kinds of cities and towns and even rural areas. When I hit on this idea to visit presidential burial sites, I had no idea as to the extent of this variety. I’ve also thoroughly enjoyed learning more about the men who’ve held this office, the places in the country that shaped their lives, and the obvious pride that so many of those towns still take in having been home to a U.S. president.
On the one hand, it’s hard to believe I’ve already visited more than one-third of the burial sites. On the other hand … I’m happy there are still so many more I get to experience!
I’ve been a lifelong student of American history, and from my youth especially interested in the men who have served as our Presidents. Sometime in grade school, I set out to memorize the whole list — and then got into a competition with a friend as who who could rattle off that entire list the fastest. We would take turns giving it our best shot (“Washingtonadamsjeffersonmadisonmonroeadamsjackson…”), judged by another kid with a stopwatch. This must’ve been before 1981, because the end of the list was “…johnsonnixonfordCARTER!” (followed by several seconds of gasping for breath).
I would read everything our school library had about each of the Presidents, and gradually learned to use the lengths of their terms as handy subdivisions of national history. I spent countless hours poring over an ancient copy of “The White House Cookbook,” salvaged from my grandmother’s collection, trying to figure out how to make some of those recepies using modern ingredients and kitchen equipment. And, yes, the made-for-TV movie “Backstairs at the White House” was among my favorites.
I don’t know where my parents found this book, but I read it and re-read it more times than I could count. It still has a privileged place on my shelf.
As the years passed, and political science became a professional pursuit, I eventually grew immersed in the dynamics of campaigns, elections, and voting behavior. But about a year ago, I realized I’d lost my sense of the flesh-and-blood men who’d held the office of the presidency. I still remembered all their names. I remembered how their dates of office related to each other, and to the great events of history. But the men themselves? It felt a little like I’d lost touch with some childhood friends.
How to change that? I supposed I could spend more time browsing the internet and reading about each President. I could keep my eyes open for History Channel documentaries, such as the outstanding three-part series they aired about U.S. Grant. But I still wanted to do something more. A little different. A little more personal.
I decided to visit the final resting places of each of the 39 deceased men who have served as our Presidents. Whenever possible, I would spend some time with whatever visitor center, museum, or library that accompanied the presidential burial site. But, at minimum, I would make sure I read something and refreshed my memories of the man’s life. And, whenever possible, I would take a kid (or kids, or the whole family) with me. I didn’t set a time limit on getting to everyone on the list, other than “as quickly as is practical, given everything else in life.”
In future blog posts, I plan to say something about each new visit along the Presidents at Rest Tour. In the current post, allow me to give a quick review of the “old friends” I’ve managed to reconnect with so far.
William Howard Taft
The tour started about a year ago, when I was in the Washington, DC area on business. And I began with the easiest: those interred at Arlington National Cemetery. I visited Taft first, for the simple reason that he was nearest the entrance. All visitors to Arlington must enter through the visitor center building; a quick look at the map there told me Taft wasn’t far away. Interestingly, he’s not buried in the section with Supreme Court justices, even though he was far happier on the Court than he was as President. He’s over in a section to the right of the main road that comes into the cemetery. His grave is a little off one of the side roads, but the way is well marked with signs. It’s among the simplest of all the presidential graves I’ve seen so far.
John F. Kennedy
The JFK burial site, with the eternal flame, is of course among the most famous and most-visited places at Arlington. I had seen it back in 1985, during a family vacation, and found it quite moving – but it had been crowded with summer tourists, many of whom had been gawking and taking pictures. Now, in December, the place had a much different feel. It was quieter. More solemn. One thing I was struck by, which I hadn’t noticed in 1985, was the dramatic view looking back across the Potomac at the city of Washington. I also couldn’t help noticing the addition of additional family members who had passed away in later years, most notably Jackie Onassis and Senator Ted Kennedy. There is also now a marker honoring the eldest brother, Joseph Kennedy, Jr., though his remains were never recovered.
I had several hours free that afternoon, so took my time simply walking all over the cemetery. I tried to get off the beaten paths as much as I could, and look at the grave markers of all the ordinary and extraordinary people who are buried there. Each marker told a story. What an amazing immersion in history that was. I highly recommend spending time just wandering around Arlington on foot, going wherever your instincts lead you, especially on a quiet afternoon when the crowds of tourists are at home. You’ll find history literally everywhere you look.
Gerald R. Ford
I was born in 1969, so Gerald Ford is the first president I really remember (though I do vaguely recall asking my mother what this whole “Watergate” thing was that I kept hearing everybody talking about). What’s more, the Ford Presidential Library and Museum is in Grand Rapids, less than two hours from our farm. I decided this would make an excellent excursion for Presidents Day weekend. Our oldest daughter, who is as much a fanatical student of history as I am, accompanied me. We also took her youngest brother (age ten).
The Ford museum is extremely well done. It’s a nice, modern building and the exhibits are laid out beautifully. You naturally walk through it from room to room, covering the different major periods of his life (and then his presidency). The ten-year-old had a blast posing next to the statue of Ford as a Boy Scout, sitting in the president’s chair in the replica cabinet room, and walking through the replica Oval Office.
For me, the presidential years were a super fun trip down memory lane. As bad as the seventies were, economically and culturally, they still shine for me with the innocence of youth. And fortunately, both kids had seen enough Brady Bunch episodes so as not to be stunned at the hair and clothing styles!
President and Mrs. Ford are interred outside, in a special section of the grounds. Before heading home, we stopped by and paid our respects.
Woodrow Wilson
Woodrow Wilson’s tomb is inside the National Cathedral in Washington, DC. The cathedral is a functioning Episcopalian church, but also a major tourist destination. However, because it is so far from any Metro stop, I’d never managed to see it on previous trips. I finally got my opportunity while in town for business on the first weekend of March. I had a good chunk of a Sunday afternoon open, and – as a bonus – Sunday is the one day when the cathedral has free admission. I took the Metro to the Woodley Park Zoo station, and then made the long hike up the hill past impressive private homes, embassies, and sprawling private schools. One nice thing about the shear size of the cathedral itself is that it’s impossible to miss. The only problem for me was figuring out which door I was supposed to use when I arrived. I eventually figured it out, and then a helpful staffer pointed me toward President Wilson’s resting place. It’s toward the front of the nave, on the right side as you face the sanctuary.
And this is a close-up of the top of his tomb:
I spent about an hour strolling around the interior of the cathedral. In addition to the beautiful artwork and stained-glass windows, there are quite a few other noteworthy people interred there. All the while, a boys’ choir was rehearsing in the large area behind the altar. The stunning acoustics had me surround by their angelic voices everywhere I went.
Of course, the whole world turned upside down and closed up within a few short weeks of my visit. Looking back, what’s most remarkable is how thoroughly normal everything was at that time – and how remote the idea that this would be the last trip I’d be able to take for many months.
Benjamin Harrison
I’ll reserve more extensive commentary about the pandemic for a separate post, but for now suffice it to say that nearly every event we typically participate in each year, including bike races, ended up cancelling. One exception was a small 12-Hour race in downstate Illinois, which my oldest daughter and I eagerly hit the road to attend. We decided to drive via Indianapolis, so as to pay our respects to America’s “Hoosier President.”
Benjamin Harrison is interred at Crown Hill Cemetery, which is a beautiful – and enormous – place. We made the mistake of arriving after the office had closed for the day, because we really should have stopped in there and gotten a map. Undaunted, we decided to give it our best shot with the daylight remaining. There’s only one entrance gate, and from there I guess I navigated by instinct toward the oldest section. Fortunately, we eventually found directional signs which took us to our destination.
The Harrison plot is a short walk from the nearest cemetery roadway. It features a large memorial marker, which looks like a tomb, but the president and his family are actually buried just in front of that marker. The sun was setting behind the marker, making for really poor lighting conditions, but I managed to get this photo of the site:
And this is a close-up shot of the text on the marker itself:
Like Arlington, Crown Hill is a fascinating cemetery which a person could easily spend an afternoon (or more) exploring. Also, the Benjamin Harrison mansion and presidential center is a few miles up the road. We unfortunately didn’t have enough time for either (and the presidential center was just getting re-opened with limited hours following Covid), but we’re definitely planning to do both of them the next time we visit Indianapolis.
Rutherford B. Hayes
Our most recent presidential election outcome has certainly generated some controversy and disputes. So … what better time to remember one of the most fiercely disputed presidential election outcomes in American history? This past weekend, my two intrepid historians and I hit the road for Freemont, Ohio, to learn more about the life and times of Rutherford B. Hayes.
What’s funny is that while the election did serve as a catalyst for our visit, and I made sure to discuss the 1876 controversy (and its impact on the end of Reconstruction) with the now-eleven-year-old before we went — once we arrived, we ended up focusing almost exclusively on the Hayes family rather than the attendant political controversies. And I guess that was really the point of the whole “Presidents at Rest” tour anyway.
The Hayes presidential center is on the 25-acre site of his family’s estate, Spiegel Grove. The two main buildings are a visitor center / museum, and then the 31-room mansion. (The buildings are only open a few days per week, so plan your visit carefully.) Tours of the museum are self-guided, and the exhibits didn’t “flow” for me as naturally as they did at, say, the Ford museum. The layout of the building is also a bit odd, with some exhibits in the basement (which has an overall fairly rough feel to it) and others upstairs on the main floor (which had a more polished feel). There were certainly a great many interesting displays, both upstairs and down, and we got a lot out of them. The eleven-year-old especially enjoyed the collection of antique weapons (including an executioner’s sword from the Philippines!).
But the hour-long guided tour of the mansion was easily the highlight of our visit. It’s set up much as it would’ve been when the Hayes family lived there, all the way down to some of the smallest details. The guide was extremely knowledgeable, and left me with a much better sense of who Rutherford B. Hayes was as a man (and what his life was like).
We also very much enjoyed exploring the 25-acre grounds. After all that time in the car, and walking carefully around the various exhibits, I know the eleven-year-old in particular relished the chance to burn off some steam. Of course, we made sure to stop by the tomb and pay our respects to President and Mrs. Hayes before heading home.
The Road Ahead
What are the plans from here? I’ve been enjoying studying the list of various burial locations, situating them on a map, and then thinking about ways to incorporate one or more of them into other trips. Reagan and Nixon are going to have to wait for California to reopen, but I’ve long been trying to find an opportunity to get out there and visit family and friends around Los Angeles. Eisenhower’s burial site may end up being the toughest to get to, because Abiline, Kansas is so far from any other place I would have a reason to go.
Sometime before the end of the year, I hope to visit the Washington, DC area again for business. This time, I’m planning to make a road trip of it, and pay my respects to a few of the 33 remaining “friends” along the way. If all goes well, I may even be able to visit Jefferson’s Monticello on the drive home. There is no other presidential site that this yeoman farmer has wanted to visit more than that one!
What’s the biggest, most consequential, bad decision you’ve made? How did the process of facing its consequences change you? A wonderful new young adult novel, For Eden’s Sake, takes us inside the lives of one young man and one young woman who must figure out what they’re going to do in the wake of an enormous mistake that neither of them even saw coming. It’s a well-written, well-paced story with compelling characters who I grew to care very much about.
It’s also an amazingly quick read; once I got a couple of chapters into the story, I found it very difficult to stop. I started it one afternoon, while taking a break for lunch. That evening, I picked it up again with the intention of reading just a little more while I built up time on the DVR for a television program. Within minutes, I’d forgotten the TV program entirely. I didn’t put the book down again until I finished it.
The story alternates between two first-person narrators, which helps provide a more complete perspective on the depths of their dilemma. The young man, Isaac, is a recent college graduate who’s working at his first professional job and learning to make his way in the world. He’s a solid, well-formed Catholic kid from a loving, middle-class family; he grew up in the country, on a ranch, not far from the city where he’s now working. The young woman, Rebecca, is a college student and has had a very different life; her mother died when she was quite young, a tragedy her father dealt with by immersing himself in work and amassing a small fortune. Rebecca experiences him as distant, cold, and always on the verge of completely cutting her out of his life.
The key bad decision, which serves as the premise for the rest of the story, is a one-night stand between the two central characters; it takes place immediately before the novel itself begins, and we learn of it through flashbacks (with no graphic details). The two had never even met previously, and probably wouldn’t have crossed paths had both not happened to be in the same restaurant. The act was completely out of character for both; alcohol was involved, and both had been caught off guard by how quickly it impaired their judgment.
But decisions are decisions, and still have consequences. Rebecca discovers that she is pregnant, and is certain of only one thing: she wants not to be. She tracks down Isaac, delivers the news, and demands that he help her make the whole thing go away. And he’s certain of only one thing: he must find a different solution.
I won’t give away any of the subsequent plot, other than to reiterate what I said earlier about this being an engrossing story, with compelling characters who I grew to care about very much.
Although the story is about a young man’s deepening relationship with a young woman, this isn’t really a romance novel. I’m tempted to call it an “anti-romance,” because so much of the story is backward from how a traditional novel in that genre would be structured, but that isn’t the best label. It’s certainly a coming-of-age story, but I think it can best be described as a “love story.” Through the mistakes they’ve made, and the crazy situation they have found themselves thrust into, they learn to sacrifice their own wants for the needs of another, and to grow into the more generous persons they need to be.
It’s also tempting to say the story is a “cautionary tale” that teens ought to read as a warning about the consequences of promiscuity. It certainly is a cautionary tale, but one with an ultimately more important message than simply “see how bad your life will be if you do something you’re not supposed to do.” It’s more a tale of discovering what one is capable of doing to address the consequences of an ill-considered life decision that may have hit a person so fast, and that may have been made with so little reflection, that he or she hadn’t even seen it coming. Yes, the story tells Christian teens, Do all you can not to fall, but if you should happen to do so despite your best efforts … dig deep. You’re capable of more than you might think. You can rearrange your life. God can write straight with crooked lines. And, I would add, don’t let your shame keep you from confiding in your parents, and letting them help you as well.
I’d like to conclude with a final thought that I took from the story. I’m not a gambler, and can’t remember the last time I set foot in a casino, but on occasion I enjoy watching the World Series of Poker on television. What always strikes me is the speed with which a pro can look at a newly-dealt hand and immediately decide if it’s worth playing. If not, all the cards go in the discard pile, and he’s out until the next round. That’s no doubt a smart strategy for a professional gambler, who must maximize the value the hands he chooses to play. But what a contrast it is to real life, where some of our greatest growth — and most meaningful experiences — can flow from the struggles to play out a fistful of “cards” that we’re inclined to simply run away from, because they don’t seem to add up to very much. At least not on first inspection. But so many times, that perception can change once we shift those cards around a bit and look at them in a different light. A new strategy can emerge. Perhaps we need to let go of a plan or a desire that we’d held dear. Maybe we need to pick up a new skill, take on a second job, humble ourselves to ask another person for help, or stretch ourselves in some other way.
Regardless, it’s that process of being creative and “finding a way” — rather than immediately tossing everything into the discard pile and walking away — that can bring so much meaning and true satisfaction in life. This piece of wisdom can be difficult for a parent to sit down and explain to a teen who is on the cusp of adulthood. Rather than trying to “explain,” For Eden’s Sake brings this wisdom to life through the actions of relate-able and compelling characters, allowing the reader to experience it along with them.
This past week, as the anniversary of its conclusion rolled around again, you no doubt heard a great deal about the First World War. Most of the commentary and retrospectives focused on the decisive (or not so decisive) battles, and the soldiers who served. But there’s a fascinating other layer to the events of World War I, and one that we seldom hear much about: the medical personnel staffing the field hospitals, many of whom were young volunteers.
Ellen Gable’s excellent new historical romance novel, Ella’s Promise, takes us inside that world. It’s the third and final installment in her “Great War-Great Love” series (here is my review of the first novel in that series). It’s a wonderful story, and an engrossing read. I began reading it at the start of a four hour flight, and couldn’t put it down; I finished it shortly before landing. As soon as I was allowed to use my phone, I dashed off a note to the author telling her how much I enjoyed it.
And this is coming from someone who doesn’t even like romance novels! That’s in part due to this story being so much more than a romance. Yes, boy meets girl. Yes, boy loses girl. And, yes, boy gets girl back. But all of these plot points and developments are tied up with events unfolding in connection with the war, including Allied espionage operations. Ella’s love interest, Garrett, is a Canadian intelligence officer. He’s of German descent, and speaks German fluently, so is a natural for the role. We get to follow him as he infiltrates the enemy ranks, risks getting exposed, and finds himself in a position of great peril.
Ella herself is an American, and had significant medical training before the war. She spends much of the early part of the story frustrated that she isn’t allowed to put these skills to greater use. The way she ultimately “proves herself,” and manages to turn the tables on those who were trying to keep her locked in a lower level role, makes for some truly wonderful reading.
Like Garrett, Ella is also of German descent, and also fluent in the language. Interestingly, her family expressed some qualms about her going to France and working against their mother country. She insists she’s not there to support the war efforts of any particular country, or even of any particular side. She volunteers for one reason only: to help persons who need it, regardless of nationality. She’s determined to stay out of the Allies’ larger strategic operations, refusing even to use her language skills to listen in on (and report back about) the conversations of enemy soldiers in her care. Her challenge is to remain true to herself, while assuring others that she’s not an enemy sympathizer. As the story unfolds, and her relationship with Garrett grows deeper, she is forced to make more difficult decisions about her role, and what she is willing to do to support the Allied effort.
As an avid cyclist, I was fascinated by one smallish detail in the plot: the use of an innovative, folding bicycle captured from the Germans. (Being able to fold it up made it easier for transport on a vehicle.) I’d never heard of these bicycles before, so I enjoyed learning about how they operated and were put to use. I’m hoping I get to see one in a museum someday.
I should mention that Ella’s Promise is a clean and wholesome story. The courtship is chaste, with the characters observing the social conventions of the time about appropriate behavior.
One other thing I should note: although the book is part of a series, it stands on its own as a story. You don’t need to have read the other two novels to appreciate this one (and I haven’t even been able to read the second one yet). Each novel focuses on a different female volunteer, with the “non focus” volunteers playing supporting roles. For example, Ella appeared in Julia’s Gifts, as one of Julia’s friends, but there’s nothing critical about her from that story that you need to know for this one. Likewise, you’ll appreciate Julia’s appearance in the current story more if you’ve read the first novel, but there is nothing from that novel which is essential to the plot of this one.
The bottom line is that Ella’s Promise is a wonderful novel, and I enjoyed it very much. I can’t believe I missed the second book in the series. I’m going to have to go back and rectify that as soon as I can.
This past summer, I described my experience with an overzealous TSA officer at the Detroit airport. It seems someone has decided that soft goat cheese is a dangerous substance that cannot be allowed on board an aircraft, and the officer had been on the verge of confiscating the stuff in my carry-on bag. Fortunately, after my explanation of its origin (and a chat with his supervisor), they agreed to make an exception. By way of update: My cousins thoroughly enjoyed the cheese when I shared it at our family gathering in Seattle, and we all got a good laugh from the story.
I had a different, and probably more memorable, encounter with a TSA officer last weekend. This one had nothing to do with cheese, goat or otherwise.
My son (almost ten) and I had traveled to Arizona for a few days, to visit my folks. It’s getting more challenging for them to come out to see us, so bringing the grandkid to them seemed like a natural solution. He got to experience all kinds of things he doesn’t usually get to see and do here in Michigan, like a day at the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum (an attraction I cannot recommend highly enough, BTW), attending All Saints Day Mass at his grandparents’ parish, riding around in Grandpa’s golf cart, and swimming outdoors in November. (Not to mention riding on an airplane, with a window seat.) Most of all, I enjoyed watching him get to spend a lot of solid one-on-one with his grandparents (as his siblings had been able to do more often, when they were younger). We made some wonderful memories; he doesn’t know it yet, but he will carry these memories with him the rest of his life.
There is one detail, however, that I will probably remember for much longer than he will: our interaction with a TSA officer in the Phoenix airport on our way home. We’d just dropped our luggage, and were making our way to the security checkpoint. To my relief, it was wide open and virtually empty. (Early Saturday morning is a great time to travel.) I presented my ID and our boarding passes to the first agent, a youngish and friendly-looking woman, expecting the usual cursory inspection like we’d had at DTW.
To my surprise, the agent did more than just compare me to the photo and check the names. Turning to my son, she clutched the boarding passes and said, “Okay, I have a few questions for you. Alright?”
“Okay,” he replied.
“What is your name?” she asked.
My son smiled and told her.
“And what’s your dad’s name?”
He hesitated for a second, like sometimes happens when you’re asked a question that is too obvious (and that no one has ever asked you before). My heart skipped a beat. Don’t screw this up, I thought. Then it came to him. “Chris Blunt,” he said, to my great relief.
“And where are you and your dad going?” she asked.
Again, a moment’s hesitation (or so it seemed to anxious me), before he told her “Detroit!”
The TSA agent returned my documents with a smile, saying something about how we can’t be too careful these days.
“Trafficking?” I asked.
She nodded, and related a couple of quick examples of terrible things that’d happened in the area recently. We were in no hurry, and the checkpoint was still empty, so she and I chatted for a moment. I asked if it was a special problem for Phoenix, perhaps due to their proximity to the border. She replied that, unfortunately, it was becoming a problem in every place.
I mentioned that the agent in Detroit hadn’t given us any extra attention on our way out. She shrugged and replied, “I always ask. You never know.”
I thanked her, and told her I appreciated her vigilance. My son and I sailed through the rest of the checkpoint, boarded our plane, and enjoyed a completely uneventful flight home.
The flight gave me a lot of time to think, however. Human trafficking is an issue I’d heard about and read about, but I hadn’t previously met anyone on the front lines of it. Was I a bit annoyed about being questioned, and treated (if only for a minute, and only by implication) with suspicion that I could be a trafficker? Of course. But this annoyance faded quickly. She had no way of knowing he was really my son, or if he was really the boy whose name appeared on the boarding pass. He doesn’t have a photo ID (but I’ll probably get him one before he takes his next flight). What if he, or one of my other kids, had been taken and moved somewhere against his or her will? Wouldn’t I be grateful for an alert officer, on the lookout for something that seemed out of place?
Which gets us to something obvious (but that hadn’t occurred to me immediately): my son does look out of place with me. We look absolutely nothing alike. Longtime readers know that Mrs. Yeoman Farmer is of African descent, so all five of our kids are melanin enhanced. Some more than others, but none more than Kid Number Four. It wouldn’t surprise me if this had something to do with why we were asked a few additional questions. Not to mention the fact that he and I were traveling alone.
But here’s the thing: the racial aspect doesn’t bother me in the least. MYF and I actually find this sort of confusion a bit amusing. We compare stories, and laugh. She used to get asked if she was Kid Number One’s nanny. I was once asked if Kid Number Two (almost as melanin enhanced as Kid Number Four) was my foster child. And so on. Families like ours are more common than they used to be, but still unusual enough for people to have questions. I get it. I simply choose to be understanding, and not to be surprised or taken aback when confusion arises. But I will say this: we actually draw a lot less attention than I initially thought we would. My classic carprobably gets more “looks” and turned heads in one trip to the grocery store than our family has in all the years we’ve lived here.
Getting back to the Phoenix airport: I didn’t catch the name of the TSA officer, but I do want to give her a shout-out for being on the ball and bringing a sense of mission to her job. I’ve done my best not to think about human trafficking, or to worry that one of my kids could fall victim to it. It’s certainly never occurred to me that one of the adults on a flight with me might be trafficking a child. I’m just glad somebody is thinking about it, and doing something to interrupt it. If that means my son and I have our trip interrupted for a moment, to answer a few questions, I don’t mind the inconvenience.
For us, this year’s Black Friday deals don’t start on November 29th — they kicked off four Fridays earlier than that. On November 1st, the price of pumpkins at our local farm market dropped to just about zero.
Well, technically not “zero.” It’s actually ten bucks for as many pumpkins as you can load in your vehicle at a time. If that’s not the most amazing, screaming good deal … I don’t know what is. (Besides the absolutely free Christmas trees that Walmart unloads on December 26th.)
All you have to do is put your $10 in the unattended coffee can (it’s the honor system), drive onto the field, and start loading. I pulled most of the seats out of our old minivan, laid down a tarp, and let her rip.
Note the “volunteer” corn stalks. This field was planted in corn last year, and several kernels must’ve spilled during harvest.
I suppose I could’ve managed to cram a few more in there, but the suspension (and the tires) were starting to protest. As it is, with this kind of load, a Chrysler Town & Country’s handling characteristics are … interesting. I didn’t want to get greedy. I don’t mind leaving a little open space, and coming back for additional loads. It’s only about ten minutes away.
I included the second picture so you could get a sense of how many pumpkins are out there. I think it’s a five acre field, and most of it is still covered in orange gourds. I’ve made three trips in the last few days, and have barely made a dent.
However (and this is a big “however”), there’s a problem: not all of those pumpkins are still sound. Some are clearly rotting, or at least starting to turn (such as the one in the first picture, on the ground near the car – there’s a reason I left that one). With freezing nights getting more common, the pumpkins sitting in that open field will only deteriorate more rapidly. So, the race is on to gather the pumpkins while we may.
Meanwhile, back home, we’re piling up an impressive orange mountain downstairs in the barn. The sheep and goats are absolutely loving these things, and the chickens are doing their part to clean up any scraps the ruminants miss.
Speaking of chickens: sadly, Crazy Mama Hen lost one of the two chicks yesterday. The little black one is still hanging tough, though. I’ve already helped them into the barn tonight, so they should be safe for now.
Here’s hoping that all the pumpkin pieces inside the barn give Mama Hen one less reason to venture out into the cold!
I didn’t really expect Sunday’s surprise, totally-out-of-season chicks to survive more than a day. So, perhaps the biggest surprise of all is that they’re still going strong on Wednesday morning.
One of Henny Penny’s big challenges was getting her chicks over the curb and into the warmth / safety of the barn. She couldn’t do it alone, and she wouldn’t let me catch her in the open field. My solution: I waited until Sunday evening, and checked behind the barn. Sure enough, she was huddled against the outside wall, close to the door that most chickens use to come in for the night. From her clucking, and the way her wings were slightly poofed, I deduced that she was keeping one chick warm under each wing.
It was very easy to grab her, pressing each wing firmly against her body so as to keep the chicks in place. As I carefully carried this bundle deep into the barn, she clucked her disapproval – but didn’t struggle at all. Only when I set her down did she throw a hissy fit and charge my legs. Wanting her to turn her attention to her chicks, rather than me, I hightailed it out of the barn.
When I returned an hour or so later, there was no sign of her or the chicks. I took this as an encouraging sign; she’d clearly found a good hiding place. I turned off the lights, and called it a night.
Early Monday morning, soon after I turned the lights back on, I heard the distinctive mix of mother hen clucks and baby chick peeps. The three of them emerged from under an old milking stanchion – probably the best hiding place she could’ve selected.
Henny Penny led her chicks toward the place where we feed the birds. Here they encountered a problem: the four enormous turkeys I haven’t gotten around to butchering. All four were totally puffed up, strutting, and blocking her path to the grain. This didn’t deter her in the least. Remember the hissy fit she threw on Sunday night? She threw another one — this time directed against the turkeys.
I don’t usually post blurry photos, but there was no other way to capture what happened. She was a whirlwind of motion (and noise), all directed toward the giants she perceived as threatening her babies.
Needless to say, the turkeys let her through.
I checked back later in the morning. I hoped she’d simply lay low and keep her chicks in the barn. No such luck; she clearly has a mind of her own. They were already back out in the grassy area behind the barn.
Monday night and Tuesday night followed the same routine as Sunday night: I found her huddled against the outside wall of the barn, clucking reassuringly to her chicks, and then I carefully carried this bundle into the barn. And then hightailed it out.
This morning, we had really cold temperatures move in. Surprisingly (or maybe not), she again had them out in the grassy area behind the barn. I watched her for a while, and she did seem to be stopping and huddling more often, so the chicks could warm back up.
I still think she’s crazy, but I’m having an awful lot of fun watching her try to pull this off.
The Yeoman Farmer 